


Expectations

by notthelasttime



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (ish?? kinda???), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence, keith gets patched up after a fight with a side of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-26 10:24:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12555360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthelasttime/pseuds/notthelasttime
Summary: Why now, of all times, he had to be thinking about Takashi Shirogane, Keith didn't know. Or, well, maybe hedidknow, but that wasn't something he was going to dwell on. Not when he was knocked on his ass and his mouth tasted like blood and his head was swimming from a goddamnsucker punch.What would Shiro say if he could see him now.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>  ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> stole the title from a [bondage fairies song by the same name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Y4ZCsbt0tk) which i guess is.. sort of lyrically relevant if you stretch but mostly it was just what i was listening to while writing this  
>  ~~the band is kind on my shitlist rn but fuck me if i don't love this song~~

_Should I be worried about you?_

Keith felt the cold and wet seeping into his clothes from where he was sprawled out on his back, blinking up at the night sky. It never really got dark in the city, not entirely, cloud cover always reverberating back the orange glow from streetlights and headlights and building still burning bright. Garrison had it's charm, but there was little to be found in back alleys covered in dirty brown slush, reeking of garbage from overflowing dumpsters. 

At some point it had started snowing. Keith could have laughed.

_Should I be worried about you?_

Keith could see the way he said it, mouth pulled in a frown like he was already worried, forehead pinched with too much concern for someone he barely knew. They were hardly more than acquaintances. Why now, of all times, he had to be thinking about Takashi Shirogane, Keith didn't know. Or, well, maybe he _did_ know, but that wasn't something he was going to dwell on. Not when he was knocked on his ass and his mouth tasted like blood and his head was swimming from a goddamn _sucker punch_. 

Three against one didn't really make for fair odds, but when had anything about his life ever been fair?

Booze made people loud and stupid, he knew this. A couple years of working the night shift as a busboy at The Red Lion was more than enough to teach him as much and then some. He should have known better, should have known to just ignore it when someone wanted to talk shit, but he'd never been able to back down or bite his tongue. Impulsiveness had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion, but things were different now. This wasn't high school, he wasn't going to get suspended or stuck in detention, there were no teachers there to break it up when he got into a fight. He was hobbling his way through college with too many student loans and mediocre grades and he kept to himself and liked it better that way. Keith never really tried all that hard to fit in or makes friends, didn't really care about impressing anybody. For the most people let him alone, but sometimes it rubbed someone the wrong way and they wanted to pick at it.

Mostly they said things behind his back.

Sometimes they were stupid enough to say them to his face.

Coming around the end of his shift and he recognized some other students from the University at the bar. Not an entirely uncommon occurance, but the Lion was far enough from campus that he usually didn't have to deal with it. But they'd been bored and feeling brave from liquid courage and had felt like starting shit. Comments muttered when he was just within earshot, malicious looks shot his way. Keith felt himself growing hot, hands shaking with agitation, adrenaline building, but he had to keep it in check, couldn't afford to start a fight and lose his job. And then they'd left, just a bit before his shift ended and he thought that would be the last of it. He hadn't expected to get jumped while walking home.

What would Shiro say if he could see him now?

Keith felt the snow land on his face, cold little pinpricks, and he let a moment pass, let his head clear. Fighting wasn't just about getting in hits, it was knowing how to take a hit, knowing what way was up when your head was spinning. He took a breath, he stood. 

"Hey," Keith said, voice rough, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, " _hey_ , we're not finished yet."

They turned to look at him from the mouth of the alley where they'd been walking away, drunk and cocky and laughing, muttering between themselves, _looks like he's ready for more, looks like he wants to play_.

Keith spat on the ground, blood in his mouth turning the fresh snow a splotchy pink, like the flush that streaked across Shiro's cheeks when he'd given his response.

 _You don't need to worry your pretty little head over someone like me_.

Keith raised his fists. 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 _Left jacket pocket, right jacket pocket, front pants pockets, back pants pockets_ , Keith patted them all down for the umpteenth time, phone wedged between his shoulder and ear as he listened to it ring and ring and ring until he got sent to voicemail yet again. 

He was locked out, keys probably half buried in snow by now still in that fucking alley. It had to have been creeping up on 2am, which was too late and he was too tired to go on some scavenger hunt through all the places he'd been that night to try and find what was probably lost forever anyway. He could get a copy made of his roommate's key in the morning, but that didn't solve the problem of getting inside tonight. Their landlord was nowhere to be found, and it was a Friday. Lance was out judging by the fact that he wasn't answering the door or picking up his phone, no matter how many times Keith tried to call or text. The two had gotten off to a rocky start, constantly bumping heads in their shoebox apartment, but they'd learned to live around each other in time. Lance, at the very least was courteous enough not to bring his hookups back to the apartment when he knew Keith would be there. But that meant he wouldn't be back around until midmorning, at the earliest. 

Keith was doing his best to ignore the faint glow coming from under the door of the apartment behind him. 

His head was still ringing from the fight, knuckles swollen, face bloody, and he just wanted to get back into his shitty apartment and lay down. Luck wasn't on his side tonight and he was trying to talk himself out of making it worse. But Keith didn't have anywhere else to go.

He turned around and knocked on the door, quick enough so he couldn't change his mind until it was too late, careful when his hand rapped on the wood; he didn't want to get anything bloody. Keith didn't even have long enough to hope that no one would answer before Shiro opened the door. 

He was in a hoodie and sweat pants, hair a mess like he'd been running his hands through it. Whatever Keith thought Shiro's weekends looked like, this wasn't exactly it. Not that they really knew each other well enough for him to know anyway. Shiro was the kind of guy that made a point to introduce himself to his new neighbors when they moved in, always tried to make small talk in the elevator, all friendly smiles and familiarity like they were somehow on that level. He'd been over at their apartment a few times, shooting the shit with Lance, but Keith had never stuck around for it. Shiro was unfailingly nice, no matter how surly and short Keith was in return. Keith had never taken well to kindness from strangers because he knew charity didn't come without strings attached. 

Keith watched Shiro's eyes flicker across his face- the bloody nose, the split lip, the swelling around his left eye that would morph into a bruise by morning. 

"Keith, what...." he trailed off like he was afraid to finish the question, and the way he said it was laced with enough concern to make Keith self conscious, but there was no pity there. Shiro never looked at him with pity as he was grateful for it. 

"I lost my keys," he said in way of explanation, not giving anything else up, and for a moment Shiro looked like he was going to push it before he relented instead, stepping aside so Keith could walk in. 

The layout of their apartments was similar, though not the same. Where Keith and Lance lived crammed on top of each other, Shiro had the space to himself. It felt homey, comfortable, didn't seem nearly as small as his own apartment. There were papers and textbooks strewn out over the coffee table in front of a well-worn couch, and Keith had to wonder why the hell Shiro was cramming on a Friday night. He was a graduate student studying aerospace engineering in the Voltron Program, as students called it. Keith figured it was some kind of reference he'd have to be an astrophysicist to understand and he'd never been that kind of smart. Not like Shiro. 

"I won't be here long," he said, eyes darting around the room like he didn't know where to let them rest and he didn't particularly want to look at Shiro, didn't want to see what well meaning expression he had on his face. "It's just until I can get ahold of the landlord." He felt Shiro move closer, rather than saw it. 

"If I asked you what happened, would you even tell me?"

"No," Keith said, blunt and not trying to soften the blow, but Shiro just laughed, weak, but there.

"Didn't think so," he said, and Keith felt a hand on his shoulder, leading him the few steps into the closet-sized kitchen. "Wait here, I'll get you some ice in a minute."

"You don't have to do that," Keith said, but Shiro was walking away, ignoring him. _I don't want your charity_.

Shiro said nothing when he came back to Keith sitting on top of the counter, a first aid kit in his hands, because _of course_ Shiro would have an honest to god first aid kit in his apartment in case of emergencies. Keith didn't know what he'd expected.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he said and Keith felt himself scowl. 

"You don't have to do that," he said again, more forceful this time because he was uncomfortable. Because Shiro made him uncomfortable for reasons he didn't want to think about and it was easier to just try and push him away. Easier to pretend he thought there were ulterior motives where there were none, easier to think he had a reason to keep closing himself off. 

Shiro grabbed his hand. 

Keith's heart just about stopped until he felt the sting of hydrogen peroxide on his busted knuckles, making him hiss and he could have sworn he saw Shiro give a little smirk. His hand was warm - his left hand. He was using his right to wipe off the blood and disinfect the raw skin. Keith never asked about the prosthetic, freakishly advanced as it was, and Shiro, ever the open book, never said anything about it. _Not that he should have to talk about it, not like we know each other that well_. It wasn't Keith's place to know, and Shiro didn't have to tell him anything.

His eyes scanned Shiro's face while he worked, landing on the faint scar that stretched across the bridge of his nose, staring back at him like a reminder; everyone's got their own battles, everyone's fighting their own fight. Everyone has their own scars. 

He didn't know if anyone knew about Shiro's scars though, and Keith was struck with the sudden thought that maybe he wasn't the only one that was more than a little bit lonely. 

"You should press charges."

"Huh?"

"Against whoever that did _this_ ," Shiro gestured at Keith's face like he needed a reminder, and he let out a bitter laugh. Couldn't really press charges when he'd been quick to throw fists, and in his experience cops didn't generally listen to claims of _they started it_.

"Not likely," he said, and watched Shiro frown before he got ice for Keith's hand, wrapped it in a dishtowel, and watched him frown some more when he took another look at Keith's face. He didn't want to know how Shiro saw him then, didn't want his sympathy. Didn't want to admit how much he liked having Shiro's full attention, pretending it wasn't just because he was a mess and Shiro was too nice to turn him away. It was always easier to come out swinging.

"What," he said, "got something to say?"

"No I'm just.... wondering why you're so dead set on self destruction."

Keith, mouth shut tight, offered nothing. Maybe because he didn't know himself. 

Gentle fingers prodded his cheek, assessing the damage, and Keith tried not to focus on the face leaning in so near to him. It was all too easy to imagine this was something more intimate than it was when all Shiro was trying to do was patch him up. Times like this it was hard to pretend he wasn't desperate for affection, yearning for contact. This close he could see the faint shadow on Shiro's jaw, see the shadows dark lashes cast on his cheeks. It would be so easy to lean in, just to...

Shiro straightened, a gap between them once more, oblivious to whatever had been running through Keith's head. Better this way. 

"Well, whoever they were they didn't to too much damage."

"I can hold my own," Keith said, leaning in, chasing that closeness, feeling like he had a point to prove.

"I know you can," Shiro said, meeting his eyes and holding steady. Why Shiro would know anything about how he handled himself in a fight, Keith didn't know, but he liked to think he saw approval there. "You look exhausted. Go ahead and crash in my bed."

Keith was already shaking his head no, "I'll try giving the landlord another call-"

" _Keith_ , you're dead on your feet."

"I can't take your bed."

"I'll be up for a while still, and my stuff's already all over the couch," and like he knew Keith was still going to argue he put his hands on Keith's shoulders, gave them a gentle squeeze and again Keith was reminded just how desperate he was when he didn't want Shiro to let go. "Get some rest."

Keith nodded.  

It was a strange feeling being in someone else's bed while they weren't there, and Keith didn't want to linger on the fact that he could still feel Shiro everywhere, not just the places on his skin where they had touched, but he was surrounded in every way. The room itself, the bed that smelled like him, and Keith could hear him settling back on the couch, ready to get back to work. Keith hadn't asked what he'd been working on, or why tonight. Maybe he would in the morning. 

Keith closed his eyes and thought maybe... maybe having someone to worry about you sometimes wasn't so bad after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> idk i've got god awful writers block and it's my first sheith, don't know how i feel abt it
> 
> hmu on tumblr if u feel so inclined @[notthelasttime ](https://notthelasttime.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was really only supposed to be a oneshot

He got blood all over Shiro’s pillow.

At some point in the night his split lip had opened back up, leaving rusty splotches in its wake, and Keith wasn’t entirely sure what he should do about it. Grab the hydrogen peroxide to get rid of the stain, try and wash it out? Leave a note and apologize? Waking Shiro was out of the question, not when he was sunk low in the couch, face smooth with sleep, arm dangling precariously over the edge.

It was an ugly mark to leave behind, but a mark all the same. Something to be remember by, like Shiro might forget this ever happened, letting it pass from memory like a fever dream. Might be for the best if Keith could do the same – just another night, just another fight. Wasn’t like anything really happened, wasn’t like anything changed.

Shiro’s finger’s twitched in his sleep.

Keith found himself in a sudden hurry to get out of the apartment, all but falling out the door before he’d finished shoving on his boots. It was still early but he dug out his phone, and felt relief when the landlord picked up on the third ring.

  


  


  


The bruise on his cheek was turning sickly shades of green and yellow by the time they saw each other again.

Lance used to ask about it, when he’d show up back home looking like hell from a fight. Nosy wasn’t quite the right word, he never pushed too hard, but he tried to pry Keith open all the same. Keith could always see it, that look right before he made the decision to bring it up, when his eyes sat on a bruise for a little too long, the sour look on his face. But Keith would never talk about it, and eventually Lance stopped bringing it up. Deflect enough times and people got tired of asking. Lance didn’t say anything about it this time around either, let Keith borrow his key so he could make a copy while only giving him a minimal amount of shit for it. And then the next week started letting him fall back into routine, too busy to give much focus to anything but what was in front of him. A minor bump in his life, a little scuffle. Time to forget.

Sleepless nights and laundry didn’t pair well with deep thoughts, and yet here he was anyway.

Keith sat on top of a washing machine, staring down at his phone not actually seeing it. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea with his schedule but it was a lot easier to find an open machine at 3am in the middle of the week instead of fighting for it with the rest of the residents on a Sunday afternoon. Besides he was running out of underwear.

Shiro presented a problem.

It was easier to look at the situation with objectivity when when they weren’t sharing the same space. Shiro had a way of clouding his head when they were alone together, or so it seemed after that night, and Keith didn’t know why he couldn’t just drop it, couldn’t stop thinking about it. A little bit of kindness that didn’t reek of obligation or pity and Keith got it in his head that it meant something. It was easy to romanticize things when you had no context for it, nothing to compare it against. It was pathetic.

He decided it was less about Shiro himself, more about the fact that Keith didn’t know what to do with friendly concern, particularly when it didn’t involve condescension. Given the same treatment by anyone else he would have felt the same, he was sure. Desperation was the answer he kept looping around to, but the last thing he could have ever wanted to admit to himself was that he _was_ desperate, and for what he didn’t know. He didn’t know what he could possibly hope to get out of the situation, and so he decided the solution was distance. Not difficult considering they weren’t really friends in the first place. All Keith had to do was stop fixating, making meaning where there was none.

The ping of the elevator caught his attention. No one else was ever down here this late, and when Keith looked up he had to make a conscious effort not to scowl.

If Shiro felt an awkwardness he didn’t let it show when he shot Keith a grin, laundry basket held in his arms. His eyes found the bruise but his expression never faltered. Just checking, not judging, not holding something back.

“Looks like we both had the same idea.”

So much for avoidance.

Shiro came to the machine next to him and began unloading his clothes, not minding Keith’s silence or the flat look on his face.

“Didn’t think I’d see anyone. Thought I was the only one stupid enough to come down here in the middle of the night,” Shiro was always easy camaraderie.

“Some shit stain dumped my clothes in the trash when I was a couple minutes late getting down here. Figured I should just start coming when no one else was around.

Shiro laughed, “I take it it’s a good thing you don’t know who did it.” He looked over Keith’s face, coming to rest on the bruise again. “How are you healing up?” He asked, and it was a little refreshing that he addressed it directly, and a welcome relief that he didn’t feel the need to lecture. Enough to put Keith in a foul mood and he had to keep reminding himself it could be anyone, it wasn’t Shiro, he’d have the same reaction to anyone.

“Fine.” Flat and final. Not welcoming any additional conversation and Shiro just kept on with his laundry unbothered.

Keith wanted to pretend he wasn’t interested, that he didn’t care or wasn’t curious but Shiro was wearing a t-shirt, the right side of his body facing Keith. His arm was on full display, something that never really seemed to happen. Whenever Keith had seen him he’d always kept covered up and it hadn’t ever crossed his mind until now that it was by design.

His arm moved true enough, no noticeable awkwardness, like how Shiro’s had had stayed steady when he was cleaning up Keith’s blood. It was uncanny, he supposed, but fascinating all the same. But more interesting to Keith was the place on Shiro’s bicep where the prosthetic met skin, the seam it made of metal and scar tissue. Keith hadn’t realized it was fused with his arm, something he could never remove. Conjoined for life.

“Surprised you haven’t asked about it. Most people do”

Keith flushed. He hadn’t noticed Shiro was watching him stare, and he realized with a small amount of misery he could be added to the long list of people picking Shiro apart, something that didn’t sit well with him. Sometimes it seemed like everybody knew Shiro, everybody liked him. He was well known around campus, a handsome face, a brilliant mind, charismatic. A reputation, Keith supposed it could be called, Shiro being somewhat of a golden child in the grad program. He was someone who would never be in want of friends and it felt like everybody wanted a little piece of him. _Keith_ didn’t want that. He didn’t want to be part of some ogling crowd, that liked to stare and poke and ask questions like a rubbernecker on the side of the road, just because Shiro let them get away with it. He knew what it was like for people to fixate on surface details.

“Sorry,” he said, but Shiro just shrugged.

“It’s an oddity, tends to pique curiosity. I’m not offended.”

“Still, you get enough of that without it coming from me too.”

Shiro stopped what he was doing, looked over in Keith’s direction with an expression that said he was considering something, deciding. After a moment he held out his arm, and it took Keith a second before he realized what Shiro was giving him. A peace offering.

“I don’t mind,” he said, “not with you.” _It could be anyone_ , Keith reminded himself while he felt his face get warm, _not just Shiro, it could be anyone, it could be anyone_.

Before he could talk himself out of it or think too hard, Keith touched his arm.

It wasn’t cold like he thought it would be, but not quite warm either, not like a real body, smooth and nearly seamless. He let his fingers drag along the surface, Shiro quick to turn or move his arm when Keith prodded him to. It was hard not to be hyper aware of the fact that Shiro was watching his face, not his hands. Like they were back in his kitchen again, but different. Their interactions amounted to chance run-ins in the middle of the night, accidental intimacy.

“Can you feel with it?” he asked as he drew a line with the tip of his finger down the center of Shiro’s palm and watched his hand curl in response.

“Yes, but it’s... different. Not quite right.”

When he moved his hands up to the end of the prosthetic, let himself touch the marred skin there where scars trained up and disappeared beneath the fabric of his shirt, Shiro said nothing. He only saw the little tilt of Shiro’s head out of the corner of his eye, still watching Keith with curiosity.

The warmth of contact always struck him, left him wanting more. Saying he was touch starved felt particularly dramatic, but what other explanation was there for the fact that such limited contact was enough to make him reel, make him want more. He didn’t know what Shiro had been through but god he wanted to, he wanted to know and he wanted to ask and wanted Shiro to tell him with that same open look on his face, warm and welcoming. Dangerous being this close. Dangerous to know how quickly he could get pulled in by nothing more than a handsome smile.

Abruptly Keith dropped his hands, fisted them in his lap instead and Shiro waited to make sure he was done before pulling back his arm and returning to his laundry. Silence.

“You’re really not going to ask about it?”

“No.” He wasn’t going to treat Shiro like a curiosity, not like the rest of them. Didn’t matter if he wanted to know or not. “Besides would you even be able to tell me about it anyway? That’s some next level sci fi shit.”

Shiro was always quick to laugh, “Maybe,” he said, “but I guess you’ll never find out if you don’t ask,” and then he closed the top of the washer and started digging in his pockets for quarters. Keith was half tempted to go back upstairs and just let this lie, but his clothes would be done soon anyway and he’d just have to run back down to move them into a dryer. There was a book sitting in the bottom of Shiro’s laundry basket, something about the physics of wormholes, cover curling back from extensive reading, pages dog-eared. So he meant to stay.

As if to answer Keith’s question Shiro grabbed his book before lifting himself on top of the washing machine, cross his legs under him. He seemed content to let them fall into silence, different from the way he usually fill space with chatter. Keith tried not to consider how close they were sitting, near enough to brush shoulders if he moved, and again that word filled his head; _pathetic_. He’d do well to stop making something out of nothing. But he didn’t go back upstairs.

In fact Keith stayed behind even after his laundry was done just to wait around for Shiro. It was stupid, he was being stupid and he should have just left but Shiro seemed glad for the company, enough to make him want to stay. Lack of sleep left him bleary-eyed when they both grabbed their baskets and made way for the elevator. It felt companionable and some part of Keith was snarling at him telling him not to get used to it. People like Shiro never stuck around.

“Hey,” Shiro said, bringing him back in the moment as the elevator jerked up. “You know you can always come to me if you need anything, right? I know we haven’t talked much but… well, I’m there. If you need me.”

Keith stared.

“Why are you being so fucking nice?” He hadn’t meant it to come out sounding so angry, like an outburst, but there it was. Shiro looked a little shocked and Keith couldn’t be sure he hadn’t just upset him, ruined whatever might have been starting between them. It was hard to tell.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m not trying to offend you it just seems like you don’t-” Shiro cut himself off but something about the look on his face said he knew he was going to have to finish that thought. Keith would make him if he tried to avoid it, and Shiro seemed to recognize that. “It doesn’t seem like you have anyone looking out for you.”

Keith snapped his mouth shut and looked forward. It was embarrassment, not anger that was making him feel hot now. Mostly because he couldn’t argue. Shiro was right but it was frustrating because he didn’t _need_ anyone to look out for him, never had. He could take care of himself.

The elevator arrived at their floor and they walked out in silence, turned their backs on each other to unlock their doors. Shiro somehow knew it was best to keep quiet, knew it was best to let Keith think instead of offering apologies or explanations that would only serve to make things worse. He walked into his apartment and shut the door behind him without saying goodnight. Keith turned around and stared after him for too long. He should have been angry, would have been if anyone else he knew said it, but instead all he kept wondering was who was looking out for Shiro? Shiro wanted to watch his back, fine, but who was watching his in return?

Keith could do that. When he thought about it, it felt right. If Shiro was insisting on looking out for him then he could do the same, if only because it was fair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know that's not really a final ending, but i'm leaving this marked as complete for now because i don't know when/if this will be continued at all or where i'd even go with it.


End file.
